“What do you want the letters for?  Can’t you trust me with them?”

“Don’t you think, George, that if you had passed through something very terrible, you would like to have all the mementoes of that dark time destroyed?  Those letters are the record of my terrible time; nothing remains of it but those written lines.  I want to burn them, to stamp them into powder, to obliterate them as I have obliterated all the past.  Whilst they exist I can never feel safe.  Supposing you were to turn traitor to me and let those letters fall into the hands of others, supposing that you lost them, I should be a ruined woman.  I speak frankly, you see; I fully appreciate my danger, principally because I know that, the more intimate a man and woman have been, the more chance there is of their becoming bitter enemies.  George, give me those letters; do not overcloud my future with the shadows of the past.”

“You talk as well as you do everything else, Anne; you are really a very remarkable woman.  But, curiously enough, those letters, the existence of which is so obnoxious to you, are to me a source of great interest.  You know that I love to study character—­curious occupation for a young man, isn’t it?—­but I do.  Well, in my small experience, I have never yet, either in fiction or in real life, come across such a fascinating display as is reflected in those letters.  There I can, and often do, trace in minutest detail the agony of a strong mind, can see the barriers of what people call religion, early training, self-respect, and other curiosities which we name virtues, bursting away one by one under pressure, like the water-tight bulkheads they put in passenger steamers, till at length the work is done; the moral ship sinks, and the writer stands revealed what you are, my dear Anne, the loveliest, the cleverest, and the most utterly unscrupulous woman in the three kingdoms.”

She rose very quietly, but quite white with passion, and answered in her low voice—­

“Whatever I am you made me, and you are a devil, George Caresfoot, or you could not take pleasure in the tortures you inflicted before you destroyed.  But, don’t go too far, or you may regret it.  Am I a woman to be played with?  I think that you have trained me too well.”

He laughed a little uneasily.

“There, you see; grattez le Russe, &c., and out comes the true character.  Look at your face in the glass; it is magnificent, but not pleasant; rather dangerous, indeed.  Why, Anne, do be reasonable; if I gave you those letters, I should never be able to sleep in peace.  For the sake of my own safety I dare not abandon the whip-hand I have of you.  Remember you could, if you chose, say some unpleasant things about me, and I don’t want that any more than you do just now.  But, you see, whilst I hold in my power what would, if necessary, effectually ruin you, and probably Bellamy too—­for this country society is absurdly prejudiced—­I have little cause for fear.  Perhaps in the future you may be able to render me some service for which you shall have the letters—­who knows?  You see I am perfectly frank with you, for the simple reason that I know that it is useless to try to conceal my thoughts from a person of your perception.”